Beatitude

And is it well with thee?
Ay, past all dreaming, well!
        For here we dwell
        Where none may weep,
And Paradise is ours again to keep—
The tree of knowledge in the midst thereof.
        Time-ripened love—
The leaves no more for healing, but for food
        Of life renewed,
Fresh with the dew, from vanished faith distilled,
        Of hope fulfilled.
        All round us angels be
To guard the gateways, not with sword of flame,
But fragrant breathings of the holy Name,
That never more an after thought of sin
        May enter in.

John B. Tabb